The Photos We Carry
by Cress Dreiser
Summary: What's in a picture? A thousand words? Please. If that were true, they would turn out to be rather nasty walls of text. Know what I think? These photographs prove that, at one point or another, we existed. You and I. Arisa x Suzuka


Every once in a while, Suzuka is the one accosted in bed with her lover's lips trailing ardent kisses in a path from mouth to collarbone that lingers hot in the cool air outside their sheets. A lazy smile will spread across her face and her head lifts back into the pillow, almost involuntarily, when teeth sensuously graze over the pulse point in her neck.

There's no use hiding how amazingly aroused she is at the moment, but she doesn't want to give away just how much those kisses make her head swim, so she does her best not to let out those moans building in the back of her throat. Suzuka never quite figures out what sets her lover off on such a fervent worship of her body, offering a shot of love in every touch, but the spontaneity of it all revives her from this monotonous routine called life.

She never questions these nights, never asks for more, only taking her lover's moods in stride, because that seems to be the only thing she's capable of when her hands are bound together in a uniform tie, leaving her feeling rather exposed and a little vulnerable, adding to the bit of fear that heightens her excitement.

When her lover is satisfied with the thoroughly ravished state of her neck, impish green eyes look up to haunt her own heavy-lidded violet ones with promises of a sleepless night, and Suzuka knows that she better cancel whatever plans she has for tomorrow.

As her ragged breathing starts to even out, the same mouth that made love to her neck retreats down slowly to the buttons on her childish pajamas, drawing out the anticipation, not giving her a chance to recover her breath, and unbuttons them expertly with teeth she can still feel on her neck.

Suzuka groans slightly, can't help but wonder what's taking so damn long, regretting not wearing a skimpy nightgown she could just slip over her head, yearning to _feel_. She hears a low, throaty, and damn sexy chuckle from the person leaning over her, but Suzuka doesn't believe there's anything funny about this, so she hisses back a strained, "damn you," not really meaning it and sighing with some relief when her lover awards her patience, or lack thereof at the moment, with a playful nip to her breast.

If it weren't for that confounded tie wrapped securely around her wrists, Suzuka would have pulled her lover into a passionate kiss, one of longing and breathlessness and tasting faintly like mouthwash, minty and airy. Screw getting undressed. She wanted something—anything—right here and now, to fan the flames of desire, but she wasn't granted this because her goddamn hands were tied.

Of course, the one who so cleverly pounced on Suzuka and tied her hands while she was distracted, reading in bed, knew just how frustrated the binds made Suzuka, knew how much more attention Suzuka paid to every touch, but most importantly knew how Suzuka secretly _loved_ it. Not that the mild mannered woman would ever admit it out loud.

They never went farther than this though. Through mutual agreement, whips and handcuffs and things of that kinky sort were best left out their bedroom, probably even better left in Fate and Nanoha's hands. Not that they ever said anything to the mages.

Just as Suzuka raises her head to see what's happening, the weight on the bed shifts, and a hand languidly caresses her side, alternating between lightly brushing fingertips and smooth, firm palms. The feel of skin dancing across hers is overwhelming, and it slams her head back into the pillow as her body arches in response to her lover's touch.

Hands travel over her ticklish ribs, but the sensations leave her breathless with want and need rather than laughter. Every move is deliberately slow and sensuous, every touch full of love and lust, mixing the two until Suzuka firmly believed there was no difference between them.

She's acutely aware of the throbbing in her core that's steadily growing painful with each passing minute, and makes it quite obvious to her assailant that she wants to be taken hard and fast, but the person has other plans.

Suzuka pouts and gives her best impression of a sad little puppy, looping her arms around her lover's neck with slight difficulty, pulling the person closer to her dark, lidded eyes, whispering breathlessly, "_please?_"

She hears an audible swallow at this, and Suzuka takes satisfaction in the affect she has on her lover, but her face must have betrayed a little too much smugness, because then the person smiles and bends over to whisper back, "not today," teasing her ear with heated breath and a wonderfully delightful tongue.

Suzuka melts into the gentle ministrations and leaves the world behind as her mind gets foggier and her eyes get heavier. She forgets how much time has passed, doesn't bother to look at the clock, focusing instead on returning circulation to hands above her head on the pillow, because blood is obviously not flowing up _there_.

She attempts to speak—of what she doesn't know—but wonderfully soft lips descend on her own, silencing and exploring with a tongue, one that Suzuka knows by heart, that makes her feel more alive than any other hour of the day with the exception of time spent in their bed or on any other piece of furniture she cares to name.

Their kiss is sweet and passionate, and despite the urgency Suzuka feels for release, she yields to her lover's game, moving at the other's slow pace with some difficulty. On a subconscious level, she'll admit that she does enjoy this—this torturous speed. She enjoys seeing a different side of her lover, one that her lovably dense idiot rarely shows, and to that she's really thankful, because it just wouldn't do to have her lover giving other people this kind of attention.

No, it wouldn't do at all.

Suzuka possessively draws the person above her down closer—so close that blond hair tickles her cheek and she can smell the warm spice and musk in a scent that mingles with her own. She's met with no resistance, so Suzuka rolls them over, not minding the sheets that bunch up in every which direction, nipping her way across the other's jaw in the process, down a neck, over a shoulder, bringing out the gasps and moans she wants to hear.

If her lover was so keen on moving slowly, she could do that.

Suzuka ignores the burn, the scorching heat between her thighs, and carefully times her actions to the sounds of ragged breathing. Every suck, every lick done when air rushes in to fill those lungs, and it's because Suzuka knows how dizzy and lightheaded it feels, how the room blends into a color you've never seen before, how it just makes you _forget_.

Had it not been for her flexibility, this action would have been impossible to pull off. The discomfort in her joints resulting from her binds vaguely register in her mind, and she briefly wonders why the hell she's put herself in such tiring position, supporting her weight on elbows barely spread apart far enough to avoid pinching shiny blond hair and her own curtain of lavender, but one look at those foggy green eyes below her, dilated and full of love, and Suzuka knows it's worth it—goddamn, it's so worth it.

She barely represses a smile when the body squirms under her, bucking, writhing, trying to retreat as far as possible into the bed as she gives each and every sensitive spot on the bite-covered neck an overwhelming amount of affection.


End file.
